My brother is a baby doll killer!
As most little girls like to do, I played baby dolls growing up. I believe I was probably in the seventh grade when my grandmother bought me my last baby doll, though I had long stopped playing with them by that point. My most treasured doll was one I got for Christmas when I was in the fourth grade I think. She was the most real like of them all, though her body was cloth and she was stuffed. That is the sad part. She was stuffed which allowed the most damage to be done to her. You see my brother is a baby doll killer. For reasons unknown to me he decided one day to abuse this particular doll. I don’t k now if he stomped on her, or if he punched her repeatedly, but after he was done she was deformed. Her stuffing went to one side and her stomach pooched out to where no matter what she was wearing you could tell she had been mangled.
To this day I don’t believe we ever learned why he did it and at his age I don’t know if he’d remember either. Did I do something to make him mad? Not sure. Did he get punished? I don’t remember. But the damage was done. It couldn’t be taken back. Of course my brother was the destructive kind growing up. He threw a football at me while I was reading one day and called out to me. I looked up in time to be hit in the face with the football. My nose bore evidence of the incident for years. I had a little hump and so he called me camel nose, the name caught on and others on our school bus taunted me by calling me that.
Thanks to sinus surgery I no longer have the ridge in my nose, but my baby doll, where ever she rests still has the deformed stuffing. Poor thing.